


To Taste

by thingswithwings



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Food, Food Kink, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, PWP without Porn, it's just a lil snippet, so this has neither plot nor sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:03:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23120323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingswithwings/pseuds/thingswithwings
Summary: Patrick’s never met anyone who cares about food the way David cares about food.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 70
Kudos: 559





	To Taste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leupagus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/gifts).

> For her birthday, leupagus said she would like folks to make her things, and specifically requested something about Patrick's thoughts on love being expressed through food. I swear that was her prompt!!! I know usually I write this kind of thing of my own volition but this is WHAT SHE ASKED FOR so NO MAKING FUN OF ME
> 
> Anyway. Very happy birthday, Gus. You're way better than freezer burned mozzarella sticks.

Patrick’s never met anyone who cares about food the way David cares about food. 

At first, he expected David to be hilariously snobby about it, like he was about skincare and clothing, to hate everything normal people liked and have strong opinions on why they were wrong about what they liked. When he invited David out on their first date―not that he particularly communicated to David that it _was_ a date at the time, but whatever―he even made a joke about it, about how bad the café food was, to soothe his own nerves a little. He had a sense, then, that _he_ might not be to David’s taste either, being a normal person who wore button-up shirts and had wrong opinions about skincare. He desperately wanted to be to David’s taste, so he cracked jokes making fun of the café and hoped it would be enough to unite them.

Patrick will never forget the look on David’s face when he bit into that first mozzarella stick, which, if it was anything like Patrick’s, was a little too chewy and still carrying a whiff of freezer burn. David closed his eyes. David smiled, softly, just a little, lips turning up at the edges. David sighed.

“There really is nothing in the world as good as cheese,” he said, opening his eyes and looking at Patrick without guile. 

“Wow,” Patrick replied, unsure of what to say. The phrase _I can think of a few things that are better_ flitted through his mind and he pushed it away. His heart beat faster. “High praise for Twyla’s freezer mozzarella sticks.”

“Not at all,” David said, already reaching for his second one. “But I am enjoying myself.”

It ignited a warm feeling in Patrick’s belly. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“What about you, Patrick,” David asked, then. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Patrick swallowed his mouthful of slightly-too-sticky cheese, feeling his cheeks flush. The way David said it, it sounded . . . suggestive. “So far,” he managed.

David mmm-d at him and took another bite, not dropping eye contact, but smiling again as he swallowed. Patrick wondered how anyone could make eating a mozzarella stick look like such a deeply sensual experience. 

George brought them their wine, and David took a sip immediately, so Patrick did too, mirroring him. The wine wasn’t very good, and David complained about it, but to Patrick’s amusement, he kept on sipping it slowly, like he couldn’t resist savouring even bad wine.

Later that night, David kissed him, just reached over and took Patrick’s face in his hand and kissed him gently, like it was no big deal at all, and Patrick tasted the sharpness of the merlot still on his breath. He thought: this is what David tastes like.

Over time, it turned out that David’s taste in food was not at all like his taste in clothing or skincare, and a lot more like his taste in movies or music: sure, he liked weird rich people things, caviar and Ingmar Bergman, but he could also get wildly excited by the Sandra Bullocks and Mariah Careys of the food world, things that were good but that everyone knew and liked. Beyond that, even: David seemed to enjoy eating anything and everything, even the crappy mozzarella sticks at the crappy café.

He was the same way in bed, to Patrick’s relief: delighted and adventurous, but above all, very easy to please. Patrick took to cocksucking like he took to bringing David chocolates from that place in Elmdale, moved and fascinated by the uncomplicated joy that would pass over his face. He wanted to put that look there again and again, as many times as possible, forever. 

Sometimes, for those first few months, when they went out, David would order mozzarella sticks for them and smile softly when they came to the table, and Patrick thought he was coming to associate the taste with their relationship, cheese and marinara sauce like a sense memory of the first suggestive smile that David ever gave him. They always clinked them together, like a toast, before they ate them.

Patrick loved it, loved that this part of David was so . . . accessible, for want of a better word, because sometimes Patrick felt lost or bored when David talked about Rick Owens or kelp facial treatments and it was reassuring to watch David sink his teeth into a mall pretzel with the same deep delight and satisfaction that he exhibited when he found bargain designer clothes in his size on eBay. 

It was really the first way that Patrick learned how easy it was to make David happy. Later, he would know that there were a lot of ways to make David happy, that it was always easy, that it was easy to be with him even if David thought he was hard to be with. He got into it, bringing David cookies or ice cream, finding decent restaurants for them to try in the neighbouring towns, watching with avid interest as David opened his soft lips and closed his eyes and threw himself into the experience of the food he was tasting, pizza or steak or dumplings or fries. 

Leaving a roadside burger stand near Thornbridge, six months into their relationship, he hooked his arm around Patrick’s elbow and said, “Thanks for bringing me here, honey,” and Patrick felt a wave of perfect belonging so powerful, all he could do was smile and duck his head and concentrate on the solid, real feeling of David’s arm against his own. 

*

It was intoxicating, David’s pleasure; it was contagious. “You have to try this,” David said, one night when they were sitting on the couch at Ray’s eating out of individually selected pints of ice cream. He leaned in close, spoon full of chocolate brownie fudge ripple, and waited expectantly for Patrick to open his mouth.

It felt strangely intimate, even though they had made out earlier and it wasn’t like there was a spit contamination issue. He opened his mouth, and David slid the spoon inside, the taste of the metal cold and bright against the rich decadence of the chocolate. 

“That’s amazing,” Patrick said, around the mouthful of sweetness, and when David nodded, pleased, Patrick had to kiss him, even though there was still ice cream on his tongue and it should’ve been gross. David didn’t hesitate, tongue chasing down the flavour from Patrick’s mouth, David _eating from_ Patrick’s mouth, and it was so hot Patrick couldn’t stand it. 

“You,” Patrick said, a moment later, gathering a spoonful of his vanilla peanut butter cup and holding it up like David had for him. David dipped his head and took it in his mouth and groaned, and the ice cream ended up getting a little melty while Patrick devoured his mouth for long minutes afterwards, eating the taste from his lips and teeth and tongue.

After that, they got more bold about it; David would eye Patrick’s plate in a restaurant and ask him if whatever he was eating was good, and Patrick would say, _try it for yourself_ and hold up a carefully curated forkful of whatever it was. David would lean forward, and open up, and look into Patrick’s eyes while he closed his lips on Patrick’s fork. The pleased flush David got was the same every single time Patrick did it, no matter how many times he had done it before. Patrick would watch him chew thoughtfully, then swallow, then smile that soft little pleased smile that Patrick loved. The smile that said he felt he was cared for.

Patrick was grateful, all the time, to be able to tell David he was cared for.

He had memorized David’s coffee order before they ever started dating, which should’ve been a sign. But on the day they first said _I love you_ to each other, David brought him tea, and whispered _orange pekoe, one sugar, one milk_ while he took the first sip. Patrick felt a surge of something wild and powerful inside himself at the idea that David Rose knew how he took his tea, had probably known for a long time. That maybe what David felt, watching Patrick drink the tea he brought, was the same thing Patrick felt when he brought David chocolates, or coffee, or ice cream. Belonging. Understanding. Love: they called it love, now, between them.

*

Growing up, Patrick learned how to cook from his mom and how to bake from his dad, and he liked it, liked the idea that he could apply skill and patience to raw ingredients and make them into something people would enjoy. He liked making people happy in general, and food was an easy way to do that. Plus, if both his parents were working late, sticking a roast in the oven and doing some green beans on the stove would make life easier for them. His mom would come home and kiss the top of his head and say _you’re a lifesaver, sweetheart,_ or his dad would get up on tiptoe and sniff happily, following his nose to the kitchen like an old cartoon character, making Patrick laugh, pleased, delighted. 

Cooking for David was the same, but of course it was also different; everything with David was different. Everything with David was a revelation.

After he got his apartment, Patrick got in the habit of cooking again, and of feeding David whatever he was making, pasta sauce or cranberry muffins or even jello shots. It wasn’t always sexy or anything, it was just what they did, how they were together. It was part of their shared language: Patrick fed him, and David made gratifying appreciative noises and asked for more. Patrick sometimes slapped his hands away from the food on the stove, playfully, loving that David was reaching out for seconds. It reminded Patrick of how David reached out for him, all the time, hands on his shoulders or arms, how David always expressed his desire physically.

Patrick was learning that, a little, from him.

The part that got to him, the part that made him feel warm and runny inside like a soft-boiled egg, was that David was not only overjoyed to be fed, and not only overjoyed to be fed something he liked, but overjoyed at the idea that Patrick himself had made it. He kissed Patrick, lips slick from oil or sticky from sugar, and he thanked him, and Patrick had never felt that thing before, where caring for another person felt so simple, and so good. So easy.

Patrick stirred his bolognese, Patrick bit his lip as he folded his puff pastry, Patrick grinned as his sushi rolled itself into a perfect cylinder for the first time. Patrick _tried things_, because David had said he loved bolognese, and David had gone wild for those pastries at the bakery in Elm Glen, and David had said how much he missed half-decent sushi living in the middle of nowhere. 

“I made you something,” Patrick would say, and David’s eyes would light up, and if he could, Patrick would feed him the first bite from his fingers, so David tasted him along with the food, so the salt of his skin was part of the seasoning. 

*

When they get married, they don’t do all the traditions, but they do the thing where they feed each other cake, eyes bright and grinning at each other like they’re sharing a secret, standing there among everyone they know. It’s as if the world has gone quiet and it’s just the two of them, in this moment together, sharing this sweetness with each other the way they’ve learned to do. Patrick feels it as strongly as he felt his vows, earlier in the day: the promise he’s making by nourishing David’s body, and the promise he’s making by opening himself and allowing David to nourish his. 

*

In their first house, Patrick learns how to temper chocolate, and how to roast a perfect chicken, and how to make a really good green curry. 

“Oooh, you’re making something,” David says, when he catches Patrick in the act, and then puts on music―always something perfect for the mood, because David is magical that way―and does all the dishes and rewrites the shopping list while Patrick cooks, or bakes, or experiments. They’re quiet sometimes, in their kitchen, while they work, just moving together through their tasks to the rhythms of the songs, but it’s a happy, domestic sort of quiet that Patrick loves. It’s fulfillment, he thinks.

*

On their second wedding anniversary, they leave Stephanie in charge of the store and take a trip to New York for a week. David’s itching to show him around, and he talks about delis and restaurants and food carts non-stop, Yelp and the _New York Times_ food section constantly loaded on his phone so he can get updated on what he’s missed. He holds up his fork to Patrick in place after place, fancy and ugly, expensive and cheap, at beautiful table settings and next to old dirty picnic tables, smile dancing: _try this, try this, try this_. 

Patrick does. Patrick always will. David taught him how.

Even with David acting as guide, though, Patrick manages to surprise him, sneaking out of the hotel during the morning skincare regimen to track down a particular bakery. The bakery David wanted to visit had closed, but Patrick did a little digging and found out that their head pâtissier was still working in the city. He feels like an idiot running through the streets with a bag of pastries in hand, but none of the New Yorkers seem to notice, and he gets back before David steps out of the bathroom, with about thirty seconds to spare. 

David’s eyes narrow immediately. “Why are you all sweaty and out of breath?” 

“Because I’m an amazing husband?” Patrick replies, only gasping a little. He opens the bag and lets David peek inside.

“These―these look like the ones that Jean-Claude―”

“Jean-Claude Denis used to make, yes, I tracked him down. These are from his new bakery.”

David’s facial expression is worth every second Patrick just spent sprinting from the subway station. It moves through stages. It tells a story: shock, disbelief, delight, desire, softening into love when his eyes flit back up to meet Patrick’s.

“You are an amazing husband,” David breathes.

“Here.” Patrick pulls one of the confections out of the bag, trying not to disturb the sugarwork and little fruit and chocolate decorations. He holds it up, and David, without hesitating, leans down and takes a bite. His eyes close, his breathing hitches, and it’s like the first time Patrick watched him eat a mozzarella stick but much more so, with so much more between them, now. Also he assumes the pastry is better than a freezer-burned mozzarella stick, which might also be part of it.

“Patrick,” David says, as he swallows, as Patrick kisses the stray crumbs off his lips, “thank you.”

“I wanted you to have all the tastes you missed,” Patrick explains.

Then David cocks his head, and licks his lips, and says, “No one’s ever loved me like this before.”

His voice is so soft that Patrick wants to tease him, bring it back to light banter, but he’s gotten better, over time, at quashing that impulse. Mostly. It’s still fun to tease David, but he wants even more to hear what else he might say.

“Yeah?” He’s still holding the rest of the pastry, flakes of it drifting onto his hand. 

David steps in past the pastry, ignoring it completely in favour of cupping his palm under Patrick’s jaw. “No one’s ever taken care of me like you do. And I used to think―you know, that it was kind of―flirting, something that might go away, um, naturally? But it hasn’t. You keep―you keep doing it.”

He kisses Patrick then, and Patrick thinks, _this is how David tastes_, sugar and chocolate and the buttery hint of the pastry. 

“I’ve never been able to love anyone like this before,” he whispers, against David’s lips. “I don’t want it to go away. I love doing this for you.” He’s not sure what he means by _this_, except that he means everything, the food itself, but also the love and care expressed by the food, the domesticity and the surprises and the sexiness and the joy. 

“Well. Okay then.” David smiles. “Good to know, four years in.”

“Good to know,” Patrick agrees, and offers David another bite.

David takes it. His eyes roll back in his head.

“You have to try this,” he says.

Patrick does.


End file.
